


Songs of the Sea

by Anony_Moouse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Minor Character Death, M/M, Magic, Sexual Content, sad!liam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2371379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anony_Moouse/pseuds/Anony_Moouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hello.” The man says, his voice low and rumbling. Liam’s town is small. Even he, who speaks only to those he must, knows the faces of each person by sight, if not by name. This man is strange.<br/>“Are you lost?” Liam asks. The man’s smile remains but his forehead creases, eyebrows drawing together as he blinks at Liam.<br/>“I am not sure.” He says slowly, glancing over his shoulder towards the sea. </p><p> </p><p>Liam is a fisherman living on the Irish Coast. He lives a quiet life; happiness a luxury he hasn’t known for years.<br/>But a stranger knocks on his door with nowhere to go. An odd, happy man, Harry brings to Liam’s life a joy he hadn’t known possible. </p><p>But his presence couldn’t have anything to do with the seal pelt, tucked away in the far corner of Liam’s home…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my second attempt at a Lirry-type fairy tale thing. Oops? Again, was supposed to be a little ditty to distract me from the pretend!bfs I am not working on, and it rather exploded. I hate it when stories do that!  
> Anywho, as usual, unbeta-ed, all mistakes are mine, tenses are my nemesis, please point out mistakes and I will correct!
> 
> ALSO!!
> 
> Please see end note for spoiler-y and potentially triggering scene. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Songs of the Sea

 

 

His face is raw from the biting ocean breeze; his beard does little to stop the burn. The wind whips salt and sand around him but Liam is used to it. His face is almost as weathered as his hands, rough and hard as the sea around him.

The beat of the sun does little to lessen the shock of the cold water as Liam jumps from his skiff into the knee-deep surf. He fights the waves with battered ease, dragging his boat to the rocky shore. The seals are his only company among the rocks, watching him with large, baleful eyes from their places in the sun. The other fishermen have long since returned to their homes. 

Liam looks at his boat, heavy with a glut of shining fish. It is a good day; Liam’s nets had come up full. Liam reaches out a single hand, and runs his finger over the cool, glistening scales. This load will feed him for a week; he supposes he is happy.

The sea gives, and the sea takes away. That was what his father always said, smiling down at Liam as he sanded his boat with careful, practiced movements. Liam looks at the worn, faded boat that is now his; his father was always right. Liam has to carefully unbend his fingers from the fist that formed without his consent; his fingernails leave angry red crescents in his palm.

The sea takes away.

 

* * *

 

The pub is bustling with voices and laughter as Liam approaches, pockets heavy with the money from his day’s catch. He hesitates on the shadowed sidewalk; the noise makes him long for his own, silent home. But the aroma of meat and spices and the rumbling of his own stomach lure him forward.

No one speaks to him as he ducks in the door. Liam keeps his eyes low and his arms tucked to his chest as he maneuvers himself to the small table by the fireplace. Even on the busiest nights, the owner of the pub- Niall – always keeps his table open. Liam had once tried to stutter out his thanks, but Niall had waved him away with a smile. Liam didn’t understand, but he will come to the pub every night if only to repay Niall’s perplexing kindness.

Liam eases himself into the hard backed chair and leans towards the fire, rubbing his hands together to chase away the lingering chill. His thick cable-knit sweater is still heavy with the remnants of the sea breeze.

“Hello, Liam! Good fishing today?” Niall says, clapping Liam on the back; Liam freezes at the contact; he forces himself not to pull away but to look up at the smiling golden face above him.

“’Lo.” Liam says, his voice rough with disuse. Niall squeezes his shoulder once more before withdrawing. Liam hunches his shoulders and tries not to miss the warm weight of Niall’s touch.

 

* * *

 

Liam eats his soup carefully and methodically, staring at the tabletop. He doesn’t look up.

 

* * *

 

His house is small, tucked between the cliffs and the sand. Made of driftwood and rough stone, it is as much a part of the beach as the shells and crabs. It was built by his great-grandfather and passed down from son to son. Now Liam is the only one left.

The wooden floor creaks when Liam steps inside, the time-warped glass in the windows painting the walls with the uneven light of sunset. It is only one room, but still more than Liam needs. The shelves along the far wall are lined with his mother’s books, his father’s nets and his sisters’ dolls. Liam stands for a moment, staring. He knows the line and curve of each item; they are all hidden under a thick layer of dust. Liam walks by without touching.

He lights the fire and fills the kettle, takes his mug down from the peg.

The fire snaps and the wind howls. Liam says nothing as he sips his tea. He stares into the fire until his eyes burn.

Tomorrow will be the same.

 

* * *

 

When the silence of his house makes his head echo, Liam walks along the shore.

The call of the evening gull and the uneven break of the waves quiet Liam’s memories. He stands on the cragged rocks and stares out at the endless sea, and his emptiness seems somehow lessened. It is easier to be alone before the wild ocean.

But Liam is not alone. He hears behind him twinkling laugher and the gentle resonance of voices. Liam ducks down among the solid safety of the rocks; he has no wish to bear the pitying glances or awkward conversation of the townsfolk.

Liam peers out as the sounds approach; these are no townsfolk.

They dance over the sand and rocks on feet as light as breeze. Even in the meager moonlight, Liam can see their faces shining with an unearthly beauty that makes the breath catch in his throat. Some are holding hands and spinning in circles, the wind rippling their hair like the waves around them. Others are singing, clear and pure, in words Liam can’t understand.

Liam feels in his stomach the sharp and unfamiliar pull of longing. He closes his eyes and pictures himself, singing with them. In his mind, he is opening his mouth, letting the songs pour from his heart, letting the music tease his arms into motion, twist his body into dance. Liam imagines himself smiling. He is surrounded by people, dancing and touching with casual affection. Except one. One person holds their hands out, their eyes for Liam only. Liam imagines… he imagines… He opens his eyes and shakes his head.

Even he can’t imagine that.

He keeps his eyes closed, but he listens until the song has faded even from the wind and his straining ears can hear nothing but the gulls calling. Liam stays, crouched among the bristly rocks for a moment and tries to push all thoughts of the song from his mind.

The moon glints against the sand as Liam forces his aching knees to lock, forces his heavy feet to move. It is late and tomorrow the sun will rise without care for his useless dreaming.

He sees it out of the corner of his eye, the moon caught on a patch of sand. Except, as he walks towards it, it is not sand. Liam reaches out a tentative hand. On one of the rocks, there is something, folded with obvious care. It is soft and supple; to Liam’s gnarled fingers the sensation is almost painful in its unfamiliarity. Liam knows what it is, even as he runs his fingers over it with careful awe. It is a seal pelt, perfect in its completeness, large enough to grasp with both hands.

Liam glances around, but the beach is his alone. There is much Liam will never have. He cradles the pelt to his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he can have this.

 

* * *

 

There is a cedar trunk by the foot of his bed. It is full of things too fine to fit into Liam’s life; his mother’s silk wedding dress, his father’s best jacket. A pair of white linen shirts his mother sewed for him, her twinkling eyes promising that someday he would need them. He was sure she hadn’t meant to lie.

He only opens the trunk on the whiskey-nights, when his clouded brain is convinced he can handle the scent of his past.

But tonight, he opens it with purpose. For the first time, he has something to add. Liam is weak enough to give into the temptation and lets his hand skim over the fabrics, the tangible memories the trunk holds. His fist bunches on his father’s jacket; he holds on until his vision blurs. But he opened the trunk with purpose. With an angry swipe at his eyes, Liam carefully takes the seal pelt from the ground beside him. The silvers, greys and blacks blend seamlessly together, and if Liam squints, it almost becomes the sea at midnight. Liam folds the pelt with careful fingers, and tucks it between that he treasures most. The pelt looks right, nestled in between the silks and wools.

Liam closes the trunk slowly. Such things are too fine for his little life. 

 

* * *

 

The rattling of his door sends Liam tumbling out of his bed. A bleary glance out his window tells him the sun is just now peaking over the horizon. The light would have woken him within minutes, but the stolen time puts a frown on his face as he stumbles towards his door, which is still shaking beneath the weight of someone’s fist.

Sleep still blurring his eyes, Liam wrenches his door open with an angry retort ready on his tongue. But he stills.

Standing on his stoop is a man. He is wet, his face hidden by a veil of dark, sodden knots. He has a discarded piece of sail clutched around his thin shoulders, long bare legs appearing from beneath it. His lips are tinged blue in the morning chill, but still turn up in an unnervingly bright smile as Liam stares at him.

“Hello.” The man says, his voice low and rumbling. Liam’s town is small. Even he, who speaks only to those he must, knows the faces of each person by sight, if not by name. This man is strange.

 “Are you lost?” Liam asks. The man’s smile remains but his forehead creases, eyebrows drawing together as he blinks at Liam.

“I am not sure.” He says slowly, glancing back over his shoulder towards the sea. The sail has slipped down off one shoulder, revealing an expanse of his pale, goose fleshed covered arm. Liam realizes with a start the man is naked beneath his thin cover. Just standing in the doorway, Liam’s fingers have begun to tingle from the cold.   

“Would you like some tea?” The words slip out as Liam shivers. The man’s brow smooths and he leans toward Liam, his fingers still clutching at his sail.

“Thank you.” He says, the gravity in his words making Liam shuffle his feet. People are not grateful towards Liam. He stands quickly to the side, allowing the man passage into his home. The man walks in, each step slow and almost unsure. His feet leave a path of water in his wake. He pauses in the middle of the main room, his back to Liam, his eyes slowly scanning the house with a focus Liam doesn’t understand.

“What is your name?” Liam asks, trying not to think of the last time someone other than he stood in the house. The man turns his head, staring at Liam with the same disconcertingly bright smile.

“Harry,” The man says, “My name is Harry.”

 

* * *

 

Harry’s hair has dried, turned from a thick veil into a halo of riotous curls. His eyes are green and make Liam think of the sea after a storm. His net has been discarded in favor of a pair of Liam’s pants, too short in the leg, and a sweater too broad in the shoulders. He has the legs of a newborn lamb, unsteady but unwilling to wait on strength. He stumbles around Liam’s home, leaning on the walls and chairs, examining each nook and cranny with his long, inquisitive fingers.

Liam tries to focus on heating the kettle over the fire, but he finds his eyes drawn to his odd and unexpected guest, sitting by the window with his legs splayed, examining one of Liam’s boots with wonder in his eyes. 

Liam hands Harry a mug of tea; Harry’s eyes widen at the offering, an effortless smile spreading across his face. He cups his hands around the tin mug. Liam watches, bemused, as Harry’s hands spasm around the quickly heating metal, his fingers seeming to trip over themselves as he readjusts his grip around the handle.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Liam asks, sitting down with his own tea.

“No.” Harry says serenely. He takes a sip, and his face twists and contorts, tongue smacking at his lips. He looks up at Liam and quickly turns his lips up in another of his endless smiles.

“It’s good.” Harry says, nodding his head slowly. Liam rolls his eyes and reaches for the sugar bowl, giving Harry a well-rounded spoonful. Liam leans back, flicks his wrist quickly, gesturing for Harry to try again. Tentatively, Harry brings the cup to his lips, sipping once more at the tea. A small taste, followed by a larger drink.

“It’s good!” Harry says again, this time with fervor in his voice. He keeps the mug pressed to his lips even as he speaks. Liam’s lips turn up in a half smile as he sips his own tea.

 

* * *

 

The sun is fully risen and the sea waits for no man. Liam can feel the restlessness building in his bones. He can imagine his boat, bobbing against its mooring, his coiled nets ready to be thrown. The sea is singing for him.

But Harry is sitting cross-legged on his floor with nowhere to go. Liam glances at the bookshelf by the door, at his mother’s books and his sister’s dolls. His stomach twists, tight with the thought of leaving a stranger in his family’s home.

But Harry’s eyes are closed, soaking up the first rays of sun peeking through the eastern window. He is humming, too low for Liam to pick up the tune, but somehow soothing. His face is peaceful and outside of his home, Liam knows the wind blows cruel.

“I must work,” Liam says, “But you can stay here while I do.” The words feel heavy and awkward on Liam’s tongue, an offer of hospitality he has never made before. But Harry’s eyes blink open, heavy with a lazy contentment; Liam knows he made the only choice he could. Harry’s smile spreads across his face.

“I will be here waiting.” Harry says, his voice as warm as the sunlight around him.

Liam feels a shiver in his stomach and hurries to lace his boots. He tries not to think of how seeing Harry smile makes him feel, doesn’t understand the quickening of his own heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

Liam hurries along the shore, a bag of fresh turbot bouncing against his thigh with each step. He had forgone Niall’s warm soup tonight, had hurried through the sale of his day’s catch. The walk home seems unending, and Liam tries not to think about the restless thoughts darting around his mind.

He has two fish to cook for dinner. Not that Harry will be there to share the meal. Harry will be gone, and the memory of his strange smiles and soft conversation will be all that is left. Nobody stays.

But just in case, Liam brought fish. 

Liam turns the final bend in the sand and sees his home, bright against the rocks around it. Bright in a way it never is, with a light that speaks of a welcoming fire and warmth to greet him in from the cold. Liam slows his steps, swallowing against his suddenly dry throat. The last time he came back to a warm home is a distant and faded memory, usually bringing with it thoughts to twist his gut. But today, all Liam can think of is his strange, curly haired guest.

He stands at his door, hand poised to push the door open but Liam can’t take the final step. All his worries had centered on the fact that Harry might be gone. He hadn’t thought to worry of what he will do if Harry has stayed.

Liam forces his hand to move, wincing as the door creaks, loudly heralding his arrival. Harry is crouched in front of the fire, poking it cautiously with a thin steel prod. It clatters loudly to the floor as Harry turns towards Liam.

“Liam.” Harry says, his voice folding around Liam’s name in a way Liam has never heard before. He walks toward Liam. Liam takes a stuttering step backward, but Harry is faster. Before Liam can twist away, Harry has wrapped his arms around Liam’s chest and pulled him into a hug. Liam stiffens, his arms frozen at his sides. He can feel his heart thudding in his chest, the beats echoing in his ears. Harry is warm and solid against him, real in a way nobody has been in years. It has been seasons since someone has touched Liam with such affection. Harry is everywhere at once, and it is making Liam’s head spin. Liam’s hand shakes as he raises it slowly from his side and softly, tentatively lets it come to rest on Harry’s back. But Harry doesn’t shudder away from Liam’s touch, instead seems to melt further into Liam’s arms.

“I missed you.” Harry whispers into Liam’s shoulder and Liam doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know Harry, and Harry doesn’t know him, can’t possibly know him well enough to miss him when no one has missed Liam in years. But Harry is smiling when he pulls away, grins as Liam lets his hand fall reluctantly from Harry’s back.

“Come,” Harry says with pride in his voice, “I made you tea.” Harry pulls Liam further into the house and grabs the steaming mug, waiting on the table.

Liam accepts the cup with muttered thanks and sips. It is too strong and too sweet but Liam drinks it all.

 

* * *

 

“That is what you do with fish?” Harry asks, his neck craned over Liam’s shoulder, watching as Liam turns the spit slowly around in the fire. He has sprinkled the fish with salt, even used a bit of the spice from the small jar on the highest shelf. The warm smell of cooking is starting to fill the cottage.

Harry is watching the process with the same degree of intrigued confusion he had given Liam’s shoes. Liam glances back with a small smile and nods, before carefully slipping the fish onto the plates waiting on the table. He sits carefully down and picks up his fork. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Harry cautiously shadow Liam’s every movement, fork held awkwardly in his fist. Harry slowly pokes the fish on his plate, jerking backward as it flakes at his touch. Liam snorts quietly, and then again at the wounded glance Harry sends his way. With deliberate slowness, Liam picks up a small piece of fish on his fork, and carefully moves it to his mouth. Harry watches carefully before recreating the motions exactly. Liam watches as the first bite of fish disappears into Harry’s mouth.

“Oh.” Harry says quietly, slowly chewing the fish.

“Have you had fish before?” Liam asks, as Harry turns to his plate and begins to eat with fervor.

“Not like this.” Harry mutters around a mouthful of food. Liam glances down at his own, half empty plate. He hesitates for only a moment before sliding the rest of his fish onto Harry’s plate. Harry freezes, slowly looking up to Liam in confusion.

“That is yours.” He says cautiously, but Liam shakes his head.

 “Please,” he says, “I want you to enjoy it.”

And he means it.

 

* * *

 

And so it is. Harry wakes with Liam in the mornings, and they greet the day together, side by side watching the sunrise from the window.

Each evening, Harry greets Liam at the door with a mug of steaming tea and a hug. He wraps his arms around Liam until Liam stops pulling away and starts to hug Harry back. Until Liam starts to enter the house with his arms spread in expectation. Liam leans into Harry’s arms and it feels like home.

Liam brings home the best of his catch; fat cod or bass, bags full of clams and mussels, a couple of long clawed crabs. Harry meets each offering with unpretentious enthusiasm, watching carefully as Liam tries to create a dinner worthy of his friend. Harry dances through the house to songs of his own creation. He has the coordination of a drunken sailor, his enthusiasm replacing skill.

The dust on the shelves and windowsills begins to disappear. Liam comes home to find one of his mother’s books cracked open and leaning against his pillow. He waits for the flush of anger or of pain, but instead finds a low burn of happiness. That which his mother loved is being read once more.

And nights are spent like this: curled together in front of the fire, Liam fixing his nets with steady fingers, with Harry’s voice winding around Liam’s mother’s stories.

Liam sleeps on a pallet by the fire, while Harry sleeps on the thin mattress covered with a handmade quilt. Liam drifts to sleep listening to Harry’s soft breathing.

 

* * *

 

Harry never mentions going home. Liam never asks.

 

* * *

 

 

Liam walks toward home, a skip to his step that he can’t seem to contain. The day was good, and his boat was full long before the sun had begun to wane. Clutched in his hand, along with the fish for dinner, is a small bag. He doesn’t know if Harry has ever had chocolate, but he thinks Harry deserves all the nice things Liam can bring to him.

Around the last bend, he finds Harry standing at the water’s edge, his pants rolled up to his calves and his bare toes dipping into the sea.

“Its cold, you know.” Liam calls out. Harry looks back over his shoulder, a blinding grin taking over his face as he sees Liam.

“I know!” He calls back, “I know so very well!” Liam tosses his bags towards the house and walks to Harry’s side.

Harry opens his mouth and begins to sing. Harry has sung before, quiet songs for the morning, little ditties as he washes the plates, a calming hum as they prepare for bed. But never has Liam heard him sing like this. Harry throws his head back and sings in words Liam can’t understand, his voice seeming to harmonize with the wind itself. Liam’s eyes flit shut, but through Harry’s song he can still see the twist of the waves, feel the joy of the ocean.

Liam flinches away, his eyes jerking open as a spray of shocking cold water hits his cheek. He turns instinctively to Harry, only to find him standing, his hand covering his mouth but doing nothing to smother his giggles.

“Did you splash me?” Liam asks, incredulous. In answer, Harry bends low to his side, swiping his hand across the surface of the water and sending a cascade of droplets over Liam’s chest. Liam throws his arms up in defense, but not soon enough. He feels each drop soak through his sweater, chilling his skin as they go.

“Play with me.” Harry says, wiggling his fingers at Liam.

“Harry, I have fish for…” Liam turns to gesture to the shore but finds his back quickly showered with water. Harry stands, his arms thrown in the air, the wind swirling his curls around his face.

“Come to the water, my fisherman.” And Liam was never going to say no. With a cry, he lunges at Harry, picks him up around the waist and spins him in the water, Harry’s shrieking laughter following them round and round. The ground is rocky, and the waves unpredictable; it takes mere moments for Liam to misstep and send them both tumbling into the ocean.

The punch of the cold water is hard against his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs but Liam doesn’t mind. His head breaks the surface, and he swipes his sodden hair from his eyes. He has enough time to see Harry’s grinning face before Harry is on him, pushing him once more into the waves.

Harry’s laughter is as light as the sea foam around them, echoing off the rocks as they wrestle in the waves. Liam is strong but Harry is quick even in the numbing cold of the water. They play until the sun slips behind the horizon and Liam can’t speak for the chattering of his teeth. Harry grabs Liam’s hand with a smile, and drags him, stumbling to the shore. Liam follows, breathless from the cold and happiness.

With his other hand, Liam reaches up and skims his fingers across against his aching cheek, muscles tired with unfamiliar laughter. Liam likes this ache.

The fire is already burning in the house, an almost painful warmth after the freezing water. Liam’s fingers are clumsy as he shrugs out of his sweater and shirt. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Harry’s sodden clothes already in a pile by the fire. Harry himself is drying off; Liam tells himself the burn in his cheeks is from the cold, not from the long lines of Harry’s bare torso and legs, graceless in his uninhibited nakedness. Liam keeps his eyes on the floor as he shrugs into a pair of old pants, worn soft. He turns, tentatively lifting his gaze, but Harry is dressed in one of Liam’s old shirts, hanging low over his thighs. His legs are bare. Liam gulps.

But Harry has something in his hands, is turning it over and over and holding it close to his nose.

Liam takes a single step forward, making an inquisitive sound in the back of his throat. Harry looks away from his prize; his face is soft with wonder. He holds his cupped hands out and Liam sees the shell nestled in his palms. It’s a conch, its sandy surface tightly coiled and spiked, its one flared edge revealing the deep, hidden pink of its interior.

“It was once a home, but no longer. Its purpose is served, and now it is just beautiful.” Harry says meditatively, stroking the smooth, shining surface of the shell, and Liam finds himself unable to look away from the long, slender line of Harry’s hands.

“Its perfect.” Liam says, his voice gruff.

“I think I will keep it.” Harry says, almost to himself. Liam looks to his shelves, heavy with the untouched remnants of past lives. He sees his sister’s dolls, hair matted with time despite Harry’s cleaning efforts. He sees his father’s nets, hand twisted but too rotted for use.

He sees a space.

The doll and net feel light in Liam’s hands as he carries them quickly from the shelf to the old baskets in the far corner of the house. He places them gently on top of his wash rags; safe but away. He walks back to the shelf, buffing the newly free space with his wet towel. He looks up to find Harry watching him, silent. He sweeps his hand awkwardly to the shelf.

“For your shell.” He mutters.

“For me?” Harry asks, his wide eyes focused on Liam with an intensity that makes Liam uncomfortable.

“ ’Course.” Liam says, shuffling his feet. Harry walks over slowly, staring at the shelf with more weight than Liam can understand. With careful fingers, he places his shell in the middle of the shelf. He takes a step back, cocks his head and nods.

“Its perfect.” Liam smiles to himself at the serenity in Harry voice.

Harry turns sharply towards Liam and takes Liam’s hands between his own. Liam pulls away, his first instinct to hide his worn and roughed skin. But Harry holds on with a gentle strength, murmuring wordless reassurances as he draws Liam’s hands close once more.

Liam holds his breath until his chest begins to ache. His hands feel thick and brutish against Harry’s skin, which is soft as the memory of his mother’s laugh. Harry runs a finger across Liam’s palms, across the callouses and blisters, the scars and the divots. Harry touches each fingertip, stained by fish and seaweed and the burn of the ropes. Liam holds his breath.

“Your hands are strong,” Harry says softly. With gentle pressure, he raises their joined hands towards his mouth. He stares at Liam, holding his eyes captive as he slowly presses his lips to Liam’s fingers, the heat of his mouth scorching on the chilled skin. “Your hands are kind.”

The slightest tilt of Liam’s head is all that is needed to bring their foreheads together. Liam’s nose brushes against Harry’s; he can feel the warm puff of Harry’s breath. With timid, fluttering lips, Liam kisses Harry’s cheek.

He pulls back, sees Harry’s eyes flitter shut before opening again, watching Liam wordlessly, his eyes dark.

With an irrational courage, Liam leans forward again, pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s nose, to his forehead, to each fluttering eyelid. And Harry, Harry is the one to duck his head and press his lips to Liam’s.

It’s the barest of touches, barely even a kiss but soft and lingering. Liam lets one hand rest on Harry’s shoulder; he can feel him shaking – or is the beating of his own heart? Harry pulls away first. His eyes are wide, staring at Liam.

“Oh.” Harry breathes, his pupils blown in the flickering light of the fire. He touches his lips with a single finger. Liam watches, entranced, as Harry strokes his mouth, slick with their shared spit. “Do that again.” Harry says firmly, reaching up to curl his arms around Liam’s neck.

And Liam does. He threads one hand through the soft dark of Harry’s hair, turning his head until its perfect. He kisses Harry again, and again. Liam feels the breath stutter in his chest as Harry’s mouth opens just enough to tease the seam of Liam’s lips with his tongue. Harry’s arms tighten around Liam’s neck, bringing them impossibly closer.

Liam lets himself fall.

 

* * *

 

The pallet by the fire is abandoned. Liam discovers his old, thin mattress is big enough for two.

 

* * *

 

 

Liam has his arms wrapped around Harry’s chest, hands tucked under his shirt and fingers gently tracing the lines of his stomach. They stand in front of the window, watching the sun peek over the water and Liam realizes he doesn’t want to leave Harry today.

“I could take you into town today?” He asks, his lips close to Harry’s ear. Harry wiggles out of his grip and turns to face him.

“Into town?” Harry’s eyes alight at the thought, “But,” he says, his face falling, “I have nothing to wear.” Liam looks at Harry, dressed haphazardly in Liam’s own castoffs, hanging from his shoulders and slim hips. Harry looks beautiful. He opens his mouth to say so, but Harry glares at him with narrowed eyes.

Liam backs slowly away from Harry, a thought forming in his head. By the time the back of his shins hit his cedar chest, he knows what he going to do.

He opens the chest with sure fingers, sifting through its contents without time or mind for indulging in painful memories. He finds it with ease: the linen shirt his mother had made for him, white as a cloud, crisp as snow. Liam has never worn it; maybe he was saving it for this moment. It still smells of his mother’s smile, but it didn’t hurt today. As he pulls the shirt from its vault, his hand brushes against a silken softness. His hand stills for a moment on the rippling seal pelt. He had forgotten about it. He smiles for a moment, running a single finger across its dotted surface before closing the chest with a quick flick of his fingers.

Liam turns back, and frowns. Harry has turned away, is standing at the window, staring at the sea. Liam can see the tight line of his back, his hands clenched at his sides.

“Harry?” Liam asks, taking a half step forward.

Harry’s lips are pursed, tight and bloodless. His wide eyes are glazed and sightless, turned unerringly to the waves. Liam swallows against the sudden thickness in his throat and takes another stumbling step towards Harry. Harry is standing in Liam’s house, but he is no longer with Liam.

Liam raises his hand, holding it uncertainly in the air before laying it gently on Harry’s shoulder. For a moment, he can feel the threads of steel-like tension running through Harry’s muscles before Harry relaxes with a shuddering breath. His eyelids flutter as he blinks rapidly, the distance in his eyes disappearing as he turns to Liam.

“Just thinking of home.” Harry says, his smile shaky but present. Liam nods quickly, trying not to think about the fact Harry has never mentioned his home before. Tries not to think of the distant pain in Harry’s voice, the voice that has he has only known to be happy. Harry glances to Liam’s hand, still clutching the linen shirt.

“For me?” He asked, childlike wonder coloring his voice as though nothing had happened. Liam hands the shirt over, watching the delight play across Harry’s face as he runs his fingers over the soft fabric.

Liam forces his mind to focus on the gentle happiness now on Harry’s face; he tries to ignore the tightness in his chest.

 

* * *

 

 

Liam decides, sitting across from Harry, that the pub is brighter today. The faces of the patron’s seem friendlier, the chatter less oppressive. Even the smells are spicier and more enticing, as Liam can see his own anticipation mirrored in Harry’s face. But best of all is the wonder in Harry’s unguarded eyes as he stares at the people surrounding them.

“Liam! You brought a friend!” Liam twists in his seat, a helpless smile spreading across his face as Niall bounds towards them.

“Niall! This is Harry.” Liam says, turning to present his Harry to his almost friend. Niall turns to Harry, his hand flung out in greeting. And he stops. Niall, whom Liam has never seen stand still, doesn’t move even as Harry takes his offered hand, murmuring a returned greeting. Liam frowns lightly as Niall stares at Harry, unblinking.

“Where ya from, mate?” Niall asks, his voice somehow quiet even in the oppressive noise of the pub.

“Nowhere.” Harry answers. He hasn’t pulled his hand back, nor looked away from Niall’s almost searching gaze.

“Really.” Niall says lightly, but there is no question in his voice.

“Niall.” Liam snaps with a sharpness he has never turned on Niall before. But he didn’t want Harry to talk of where he had once been. There is no need. Niall turns to Liam, the wariness in his eyes settling into something almost like pity. Liam shifts in his chair and ignores the slight churn of his stomach.

“Okay, Liam,” Niall says, reaching over to squeeze Liam’s shoulder, just once, “Let me get you lads some food.” Niall whips away with one more glace toward Harry.  

From the far corner, the jaunty notes of a fiddle begin, weaving together into a quick-fingered jig. Liam sees Harry’s eyes widen as the music curls around them. Harry leans across the table, holding his hand out to Liam.

“Dance with me.” Harry says, eyes shining. And Liam thinks of their house, of bumped tables and bruised shins. He thinks of elbows in his gut, of clattering mugs. He thinks of the strange look in Niall’s eyes. He doesn’t want to think anymore.

“Of course.” He says, taking Harry’s hand without hesitation.

Harry holds Liam’s hand tight in his, the other loops around Liam’s waist. He hikes his feet and bends his knees, and begins to leap in a dance so far from anything Liam has seen. Liam releases his hold on Harry, hands going instead to cover his own helpless laughter. And Harry smiles and dances around Liam, pulling more people from their seats and into the dance.

Liam closes his eyes and sways, slowly, letting the music surround him until he can feel the rhythm down in his toes. He lets his mind go, lets his feet find the pulse of the song, lets his arms follow the motion. He spins, and the music is everywhere around him and it’s a freedom Liam has never known.

He opens his eyes and Harry is there spinning around and around with one hand in the air. His lips are moving though the song has no words. He is half a beat off and oblivious to everyone around him. But when Liam reaches for him, Harry comes, loops his arms around Liam’s neck and they dance together.

And they spin round and round the dance floor, huffing in breathless laughter as they stumble over each other’s feet.

At the far edge of the room, Liam sees Niall standing with his arms crossed, staring. He smiles over, tries to wave Niall onto the floor but Niall doesn’t see Liam. He is watching Harry.

 

* * *

 

“Liam!” Liam turns towards the call, a small smile touching his lips as he sees Niall fighting through the small crowd around the fish stall. He nods his head in Niall’s direction, but Niall shuffles his way over until he is standing at Liam’s side.

“Selling you wares?” He asks, bouncing up and down on his feet.

“Yeah,” Liam says over the din of voices around them, “Was a good day.” Niall smiles brightly at him, before gesturing to the bag clutched in Liam’s hands.

“Dinner for you and your lad?” Liam feels his cheeks flush, and ducks his head. He likes people calling Harry his lad.

“Tell you what.” Niall say, “I need two fish for the pub, and I don’t want to fight for them. You give me those, and I will give you stew and rolls in trade?” And Liam loves the ritual of cooking with Harry each night, but the warm comfort of Niall’s hearty fare was something he can’t turn down.

“Deal.” He says with a smile, clapping Niall on the back with as ease he didn’t understand, and follows Niall back through the crowd.

“Give me a moment.” Niall says as they enter the smoky warmth of the pub. Liam hands over the moist bag of fish, which Niall takes with eager delight. “I will make a meal fit for kings, just for you and your boy!” Liam smiled helplessly at the words. Niall turns to go, but twists his head back, his eyes serious, “I am glad you are happy, Liam. I like that he makes you happy.” Niall smiles one more time, soft and sincere before he disappears into the kitchen, already tearing at the fish.

Liam leans against the counter, a warmth radiating through his chest. Yes, he supposes, maybe this was what happy felt like. The uncontrollable urge to sing, the loose easy feeling that things are all right. Liam has a restlessness in his feet; he knows they wanted to carry him home to Harry. Harry, who is waiting for him in the warmth of his house, with tea and a kiss.

A loud clearing of a throat interrupts Liam’s contented imaginings. He cranes his neck and sees an old man sitting on a high stool. He is wrapped in layers of coats and rags, his crooked fingers wound with cloth. His face is almost hidden behind his colorless, grizzled beard. People are sitting around him, faces turned in eager expectation. A storyteller.

“Have you heard of the seal folk?” The man’s voice is deep and cracked, and it draws Liam in like a fish on a lure.

“The selkies are a people who spend their lives in the sea, savoring the freedom of the depths. They are one with the sea but for the moments when they shed their skin and take on their humans form. Once a year, the Selkies come to shore. More beautiful than a man could ever say, they dance on the beach in the moonlight and sing to the stars. All who see them fall in love.” Liam takes a step closer to the storyteller, even as a weight settles deep in his gut, even as his heart begs him to leave, to run back to Harry. He needs to hear the story.

“But the magic of their shift lays, not in the moon, but in the skin they shed.” The man’s voice is low and hypnotic; Liam finds himself unable to move; he tastes the bile rising in his throat, “If one is to find the skin of the selkie, then the selkie is bound to him, unable to return to their true form, caught forever on land.

They don’t belong to this world; they belong to the sea; they will always long for home and the songs of the sea. Should they find their skin, no amount of time nor promise of love can keep them from the call of the ocean.” Liam can feel the weight of every eye in the building; they are watching him, they can hear the loud thundering of his heartbeat, how could they not? It is all Liam can hear. Except that is not true; Liam can hear every voice at once, speaking louder and louder until Liam can’t bear it anymore.

“Liam?” Niall is there, a hand on Liam’s shoulder. His face is light with a terrible sympathy, “I’m sorry.”

And Liam runs, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants. He drops his shoulder, shoving through the crowd into the street, ignoring Niall as he calls his name behind him.

Liam runs through town, along the streets to the beach. He runs home, the inexpressible panic in his stomach stronger than the burn of his legs. He had known, he had always known in the deepest parts of his mind that Harry is too perfect to be true. But it is just a story. Just a story that can’t possibly be true; Harry is as real as he. Except… The sand disappears beneath Liam’s thundering feet and all he can think of is home and Harry.

 

* * *

 

He throws open the door of his cottage, panic clawing up his throat when he finds it cold and empty, the fire not but embers in the hearth.

“Harry?” He calls, not caring at the tremor in his voice. He throws the sheets off the bed, spins around once more but he is alone in the cottage.

Liam stumbles out of the house and back on to the beach, dread clouding his mind. Harry can’t be gone.

It takes him but a moment to find Harry: a small figure in the distance, standing knee deep in the water, waves breaking around him in a spray of foam.

Liam runs, uncaring of the water soaking into his shoes and pants. Liam stumbles into Harry’s back, almost sending them both into the water. His arms wrap around Harry’s waist, tightening until he hears Harry’s rough exhale. He rests his forehead against the back of Harry’s neck and forces himself to breathe. Harry is still here.

“Liam?” Harry asks, his voice wheezy but somehow distant. Liam shakes his head, still pressed against Harry’s skin. He can’t talk; not yet.

“You were gone.” He whispers, uncaring of the break in his voice.

“I am here.” Harry says, but his voice is wrong, detached and sad, “I was just listening for the song.” He turns his face towards Liam, and Liam can see the depths of the ocean in his eyes, wild and untamed.

“I just can’t seem to find it.” Harry says, a touch of bewilderment in his voice. But he shakes his head, melancholy falling away from his face like a cloak.

“Come!” He says, reaching for Liam’s hand as though all is right in the world, “Let us go home.” He straightens his shoulders and turns away from the water, his head held high.

Liam can do nothing but follow.

 

* * *

 

At night, Liam kisses Harry’s lips, his neck, his chest. He covers Harry with his mark, leaving a trail of red stains in his wake. He runs his hands over every bony ridge and soft hollow.

He lies back on the bed and Harry rides him. He forces his eyes open, staring at Harry, wild and beautiful with his head thrown back ecstasy, the sweat glistening on his smooth chest. Liam clutches at Harry’s hips, wanting to leave bruises with his fingerprints. He holds Harry and lets his fingers say the words his mouth can’t bear to: stay.

 

* * *

 

Harry sleeps, his head pillowed on Liam’s chest. Liam runs his hands over Harry’s hair, his fingers gently following the curve of each curl. He rests his palm against the warm bow of Harry’s cheek, touches his eyelids as they quiver with his dreams. He cradles Harry’s warm weight and forces himself to breathe.

Harry, who has burrowed into Liam’s cold life, carved his home into Liam’s chest. Harry, who belongs to the sea.

Liam doesn’t sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

The ocean, more familiar to Liam than his driftwood cottage, seems malevolent. Liam maneuvers his boat through the water and the waves seems crueler, seem to try to envelope him, to draw him into their depths.

In the distance, he sees the surface break around the round head of the seals. He can feel their steady gaze on him as he forces his shaky hands to pull on his nets.

 _Give him back_ , the wind seems to say, a hundred voices somehow coming from the very water around him. _He isn’t yours to keep_.

 _Please_ , Liam doesn’t say, _He’s all I have_. He digs his oars into the ocean and rows silently home, eyes fixed on the horizon.

 

* * *

 

Liam stands at his door, unable to force himself to enter the house. He can almost feel the warmth of the fire, can just hear the muffled sound of Harry singing. If he stays here, if he doesn’t move, maybe time will freeze. He can stay in this moment of having Harry, but not having him. Of being close, but not able to touch; of hearing without seeing. Liam could live with that. But Harry shouldn’t have to. Liam feels the now familiar burn in his eyes but he blinks it back. The tears would be for no one but him.

Liam enters the cottage. The fire is burning merrily, casting its warm orange glow to the far corners of the house. The bookshelf is covered with sand-shined shells and pieces of sea glass, lovingly collected and arranged. The bed in the far corner is mussed from last night still, the indent of two bodies still visible in the mattress. This is a home, and Liam can barely breathe with the pain of it.

“Liam.” Harry’s voice is weighty and comfortable, slow as though he is savoring Liam’s name. Liam doesn’t have enough time to catch a stuttering breath before Harry has leapt at him, coiling his long arms around Liam’s neck and waist. Harry molds himself to Liam, chest to chest, hip to hip.

Liam buries his nose into Harry’s curls, and breathes in his briny scent. Harry pulls back just far enough to press his lips against Liam’s. It’s a sweet kiss, soft and lingering.

With all his will, he pushes Harry away, forces himself to walk by and not stare at the confusion so readily apparent on Harry’s face.

He walks straight for the trunk and opens it, his fingers find what they seek without erring. Liam quickly stuffs it in his bag without pause. He can’t give himself time to think. He stands on wobbly legs and walks back to the door. He holds a shaking hand out to Harry.

“Come with me.” Liam says. Without hesitation, Harry puts his hand in Liam’s and follows him into the night.

Liam leads them along the beach, over the rocks and stones. Harry says nothing, but clings to Liam’s hand.

Liam comes to a stop at the stone, the stone he had hoped he wouldn’t be able to hide, the stone that had once hidden him from a group of ethereal dancers, almost a lifetime ago.

He turns to Harry and opens his mouth, but finds he has no words. Harry’s brow is furrowed with worry. He lets go of Liam’s hand, instead reaching up to cradle Liam’s face between his palms.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, ducking his head to force Liam to meet his eyes. And Liam can’t bear it. He shuts his eyes even as he turns his face to rest against Harry’s soft palm. He can’t tell Harry how everything is wrong, but he is trying to make it right.

Liam shakes Harry’s hands off, instead wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist and pulling him tight to his chest. Liam he can hear Harry’s heart, taste his skin, feel his breath. Harry is everywhere around him, if only for this last moment.

“I love you.” Liam whispers into Harry’s neck. Without looking, without allowing his fingers to pause, Liam reaches into the burlap bag hanging at his waist, and takes out the glistening grey pelt. He reaches between them and holds it against Harry’s chest. His breath comes in uneven pants as he feels Harry stiffen against him; he doesn’t pull Harry back when Harry stumbles away, eyes wide and chest heaving.

Harry stares at the skin- his skin, holding it in both hands with a reverence that makes Liam’s heart hurt.

“Liam.” He whispers, eyes still locked on his pelt. “What are you doing?”

Liam leans forward and presses a trembling kiss to Harry’s cheek. It tastes like the sea. There is so much he wants to say, so much he wants Harry to know, but the words stick in his throat.

“Go.” He forces out the single word, his voice rough and low. Harry was never his to keep. Harry whimpers, his hands still clutching at the skin but he leans forward and rests his head against Liam’s chest for a moment, for one moment… 

And he runs. 

Liam watches Harry run, his feet seeming to not even touch the sand in his swiftness. Liam watches him splash into the water, the waves converging on him like they are welcoming him home. He forces himself to watch as Harry throws his head back, arms flung wide as though in exhalation. Liam’s eyes burn as Harry, curls dancing wildly in the wind, dives gracefully into the foaming sea. 

Liam stands, even as the salt crusts around his eyes, even as his hands curl into fists against the cold. Not caring at the wind or the rain, Liam watches the water until the first harsh light of morning breaks.

 

* * *

 

Harry doesn’t come back.

 

* * *

 

Liam goes out to sea each morning, throwing his nets into the water, moors his boat each night.

He doesn’t walk the beach.

He sips his tea as he stares into the flickering flames of his furnace.

He goes to bed and knows tomorrow will be the same.

 

* * *

 

The clouds are dark on the horizon, growing larger even as Liam pushes his skiff into the rough waters. He is the only one on the sea; all the fishermen around him had eyed him as he had pushed away from the shore, he had heard their whispers about storms and rough waves. But Liam knows the sea, had lived and lost in its waters. The thought of facing its fury seems like nothing compared to the terror of missing a day, of changing the fragile schedule his life revolves around once more.

 

* * *

 

His sweater is stiff with brine, crusted white with salt. The wind is stirring the seas around him, creating a fury Liam can’t see beyond.  He rides the waves, arms braced on the sides of his boat through each crest and plunge.

It has been too long since he last glimpsed the shore; he is further out to sea than he has been before. All he can see is white-capped water, indistinguishable from the rolling grey sky. All he can feel is the violent rolling water through the thin planks of his boat.

The sea- the sea- the sea is all around him, and Liam is alone. Liam feels a feverish laugh build in his chest.

Liam turns his face into the storm and opens his arms. The sea took his father’s life, his sister’s breath and his mother’s heart. It took Harry. It takes, it takes, it takes…

Liam has nothing left for it anymore.

His eyes are closed; he doesn’t see the wave that knocks him over. He has time for one breath before he is in the water, buffeted back and forth by competing waves. Reflex makes him fight, clawing at the sea and fighting towards the promise of air. He forces his eyes open against the sharp sting of the salt water. He can see the shimmering outline of the sun. Liam reaches, he reaches because he has never known how to let go and even as his vision grows dark and the sea closes in around him, he can almost feel beneath his fingers the silk of a beloved skin.

 

* * *

 

Something tickles Liam’s cheeks, the sensation forcing him into wakefulness. The orange light of sunset sparks moisture to his eyes as he forces his bruised eyelids open. He is alive. He allows himself two slow aching blinks before forcing his neck to turn. He is on the beach, close enough to the water that the waves lap at his outstretched hand. He turns his head the other way, and forces himself not to jerk back.

There is a seal, perched on the rocks beside him and staring at him with a single-minded intensity. He is close enough that Liam can feel the tickle of the seal’s whiskers against his cheek. In the fading sunlight, Liam can see the seal’s eyes are the green of the summer sea.

“I just wanted to love you.” Liam says, his voice raw from the ocean water’s brine. His hands are heavy, battered by the waves but he lifts them anyway. He stops before he can touch the face. He can feel Harry’s breath on his fingers, but he doesn’t deserve to touch. “But I couldn’t keep you from the sea.” He whispers, wishing the words were somehow enough.

The seal shakes its head with a vehemence Liam doesn’t understand, and ducks its head to press against Liam’s hand. Liam lets his eyes slide closed and pretends he has been forgiven.

 

* * *

 

 

Liam sits at his table, staring at the worn surface. He pays no attention to the bustle around him, to the laughter and the dancing. He eats his soup slowly and methodically, not noticing the taste. Liam’s mind is at sea.

He doesn’t hear Niall’s approach until the scrape of the chair next to him pulls him from his thoughts. Niall sits across from him, his face uncommonly serious.

“How are you doing?” He asks gently. He places his hands on the table, close to Liam but not touching. Liam shrugs one shoulder, not bothering to offer anything else. He hears Niall sigh but he doesn’t look up from the table.

“There are other stories, you know,” Niall says, each word stilted as though carefully chosen, “Of selkies.” Liam pushes his bowl away and stands, his chair clattering behind him. He can’t, not yet.

“Wait!” He hears Niall call, but Liam is already stumbling through the crowd toward the cold promise of the doorway. He breathes in heavy gulps of brisk air as he lurches out of the pub, one hand clutching his chest as though he can slow the racing of his heart. He is barely surprised when a hand wraps tightly around his arm and Niall is crowding him against the side of the pub. Liam isn’t sure he can bear to hear the condemnation of Niall’s words, even though he is sure he deserves it.

“Wait,” Niall says again, a steel in his voice Liam has never heard before.  “There are tales of selkie’s who are not slaves to the keeper of their skin.” Liam lets his head fall backwards to rest against the rough wall behind him. He doesn’t want to hear this. “They fall in love with humans.” Niall continues, pressing in close against Liam, his every word weighted, “The selkies come back, year after year, not because they have to but because they want to.” With a cry, Liam wrenches his arm from Niall’s grasp and stumbles away. One hand braced against the pub wall, his face buried in the other, Liam runs. He let Harry go, he let him go, and he can’t think about it anymore. He can’t bear it.

Behind him, he hears the echo of Niall’s voice, “On midsummer’s eve, Liam. Is that really too long a wait?”

 

* * *

 

 _They come back because they want to._ Niall’s words echo in Liam’s chest, blossoming into something that could become hope.

 

* * *

 

Liam stands on the beach, and breathes in the crisp sea air. His boat, newly repaired and ready for the waves, bobs gently at his side. He turns his head to the sky, and hums out a half remembered tune with words he will never know; still, it is the song he loves best.

In the fragile light of the newborn day, he can see the water break and in the distance, the vague shape of a rounded head bobbing in the waves. His ever-present shadow, ready to accompany him on his day. Even as the cold wind cuts through the holes in his coat, Liam feels a strange warmth settle in his chest.

No, he thinks as he pushes his skiff into the water, watching Harry flip and twirl in the water, Midsummer’s Eve is not too far away.

 

_The sea takes (and sometimes, sometimes, it gives)._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, erm, I doubt anyone remembers this little story, but I finally got around to finishing Harry's POV? Took forever, and but in the wake of FOUR fever, I felt like I needed to get back in touch with my fandom.
> 
> I hope its ok!
> 
> Unbeta'd :)

Harry was born to the ocean; his first lullaby was the gentle roar of the waves and his first love was the crisp salt air. He grew in the freedom of the water, swimming from shore to shore.

 

But Harry loves the sea as much as he hates the sea. For the sea is vaster than his mind can grasp and wider than his flippers can carry him. Though his family is many, Harry spends his days alone. For his people are solitary; are meant to draw strength from the ocean and not from a friend, to find comfort in silence and not long for companionship. And Harry tries. But in the immense span of the ocean, Harry is small and the ache in his chest is a thing unrelieved by the lonely sea.

 

So Harry turns from his kin, tired of the confusion in their eyes when he tries to swim beside them. Instead, he turns to the shore and watches humans as they come and go. He drifts lazily through water, eyes barely breaking the surface.  He sees humans holding hands with heads thrown back in laughter, sees them walking in mismatched packs, talking and touching. He watches and feels a pull deep inside, an aching desire he doesn’t know how to voice.

 

Harry watches and he grows, in age and in daring. He swims closer to shore and to the fishing boats that dot the ocean, a foolish bravery fueled by longing. He sees unselfish kindness and he sees unrepentant cruelty for people did not know how to hide their nature from the ocean.

 

But most of all, he sees his Fisherman. A quiet man in his little boat, the Fisherman fights through the capricious seas with a tired sort of skill. Harry watches the Fisherman as he tosses his nets, high and strong. He sees him gather his catch with a proficient grace, caressing each captured fish with a gentle gratefulness. Whenever Harry allows himself the indulgence of swimming close to the boat, The Fisherman tosses him fish without a touch resentment stiffening his hands. But Harry sees the Fisherman’s sea sprayed face, and he finds no joy or contentment in the set of his lips.

 

Harry watches the fisherman and he sees himself in his lonely eyes.

 

Day after day, the fisherman sits in his boat, alone with only the swirling gulls for company. Harry spins in the water beneath his boat, corralling fish into the man’s nets. He carefully breaches the water as the man pulls them in, watching carefully for a flash of happiness in the man’s drawn face.

 

And the man pulls in the heavy load, lets his fingers linger in the water as though in silent gratitude for the fish. But he doesn’t smile.

 

Harry watches and wonders if he could ever ease the fisherman’s weary eyes, wonders why they must both be lonely.

 

* * *

 

Harry is no longer a child. The seasons have passed, and he has felt the call of the shore growing with each passing year. But, as the midsummer moon grows near, he feels it deep in his bones, an inexplicable ache unquenched by the rolling seas. It is the ache of muscles he has never used, limbs he has never known. For the first time, the sea is no longer enough to hold him. 

 

And a thought begins to grow.

 

* * *

 

He gathers in the shallow waters by the shore, for once surrounded by brothers and sisters and cousins. They swim together, playful with the giddy anticipation of the shore.

It should be everything Harry has longed for, but it is not. He is surrounded by his people and Harry knows it isn’t enough.

And the moon finally breaks from the clouds, luminous and with a promise of something greater than Harry dares voice. As if by some unspoken call, his brethren all cease in their play and turn towards the shore.

In Harry’s mind, the swim is endless and the rocky beach unreachable. Harry longs to push himself, to move with all the swiftness he possesses even as he forces himself to slow; to savor the last moments in the ocean. 

But even before his flippers touch the sand of the approaching shore, he feels the change begin deep beneath his skin, feels the ripple running down his spine. His lungs burn with a sudden desperation he has never known. He breaks the surface of the water, gulping air like a starving thing. He is shaking and spasming as his body reshapes into something new. A cry is ripping from his throat- a sound he has never made- pushing passed newly formed lips. His eyes are blurred, glazed with tears that had sprung to his eyes the moment the brackish water had dripped down from his eyelashes.

He stands- stands! –

And he falls, a wave knocking into his knees and sending him sprawling back into the moonlit water. A jubilant laugh bubbles to his lips; Harry throws back his head and gives in to the feeling, splashing at the water with his long, spindle-like fingers.

 

He is human.

 

His brothers and sisters wrap themselves in long swathes of cloth, safely hidden from year to year among the tidal rocks. Harry listens to their songs as he floats silently in the shallow water. He watches as they walk on steady feet across the sand, towards the wavering lights of the village.

There was a time when Harry longed for the village, when his mind was filled with the stories of the burning heat of the fires, the strangely hot food, the dancing-

But now…

Along the far reaches of the shore, Harry can see something flickering in the darkness, the distant light of a small cottage tucked into the rocks themselves.

Now, Harry aches for more.

 

He gathers his uncooperative legs beneath him and staggers to the shore. Clutched to his chest, he carries his pelt: his other self, his tie to the ocean. It feels small in his hands, yet it beats with the rhythm of the seas.

 Harry stumbles slowly over the wet sand. He is caught up in the sight of his own feet; he almost misses the solitary figure, sitting still as a sentinel on the rocks. His Fisherman is there, face tipped up to the stars and twisted with a longing Harry has long felt, tight in his own chest. Harry stills, his long, awkward limbs curling beneath him as he sinks slowly to the sand, though the Fisherman pays him no heed, lost as he is to his own thoughts.

His lips tight with stubborn resolve, Harry slowly creeps forward towards a flat expanse of rock lit by a fragile ray of moonlight. It is directly behind the Fisherman; it is perfect. But even as Harry lays his skin down, his fingers stiffen in its folds and he stills. 

He can feel the pulse of his heart, the roar of the ocean, the comfort of home. His fingers spasm across the impossible softness of his pelt, as though rebelling against the thought of release. He can hear in his mind the vague memory of his mother’s voice, telling him of the power that lay in his skin. His mother gave him both life and this caution; to protect his pelt is as important as the air in his lungs. All his people know that to lose it is to be a slave to the whims of the land. 

But Harry turns his face once more towards his Fisherman, sees his head tipped to the sky and his face smoothed of worry. His eyes are closed and there is half a smile touching his lips, unlike anything Harry has seen before; Harry recognizes the peace of imagination that has carried him through the years. The breath stutters in his chest; his Fisherman is beautiful when he is happy.

But, even as Harry watches, the Fisherman’s eyes open, and with each blink, the weariness eases back onto his face. Harry can see the familiar weight settling in and hunching his shoulders.

Harry feels a surety settling in his bones; no one so kind and beautiful should be so alone. He releases his pelt and takes a step back, staring as it glistens in a patch of moonlight.

 

This is the right choice.

 

He waits in the water, letting the waves ease away the ache of his new, long limbs. The night slowly gives way to morning and Harry watches the sun crest the horizon with a giddy anticipation building in his toes. He can feel the pull deep in his stomach, urging him toward the driftwood cottage, toward his pelt and toward his Fisherman.

When he can bear it no longer, he stumbles out of the water. He finds a piece of cloth caught in the rocks and pulls it over his strange new skin, hairless and pale.

He stumbles across the beach, wincing as the rocks cut into his tender feet but such a small thing can hardly keep him from his Fisherman.

The cottage is cold in the sparse light of morning and Harry stands before the door, his heartbeat heavy in his chest and sweat beading on his forehead even as his teeth chatter in the unfamiliar cold. Soon, he thinks. So soon.

His Fisherman opens the door, his hair wild as though already buffeted by the ocean wind, his eyes still heavy with sleep. Harry’s lips pull upward, a helpless gesture that somehow seems to ease the giddy feeling in his stomach.

“Hello.” He says, and thinks of beginnings.

 

* * *

 

Liam. His Fisherman is now Liam, his friend.

 

* * *

 

Liam never questions his presence, never asks about Harry’s home. Instead, he carves out a place for Harry, in his house, in his bed, in his life.

 

Harry sometimes catches Liam watching him, a quiet sort of curiosity in his eyes and Harry wonders if Liam knows Harry’s home is the very waters they play in, but neither voice it.

 

He is fond of Liam’s face, but finds he loves it when it is broken by a smile, or when the deep lines etched by a hard days work can be eased by the press of Harry’s hand. Harry wraps himself around Liam’s life, seizing the little pieces of the world that Liam shares. He sings Liam’s songs, and reads his stories and thinks that this is all he needs in the world.

 

Until Liam kisses him.

 

Harry learns love can be a physical thing, that they can pass their life’s breath between each other’s mouths, touch until the space between them doesn’t exist. Harry learns they can hold each other until loneliness is hazy, almost forgotten thing.  He learns to crave the slide of skin on skin, and that the lightest touch can start a fire in his blood, so so very from the cold cradle of the sea.

 

He is happy, truly. He is filled with an all-consuming peace that he had only dreamed of. He lives for Liam’s helpless smiles, ones he can but echo himself. 

 

It is only at night that he wakes, sweat cold on his face and chest twisted, lost without the quiet lullaby of the waves. It is only sometimes when his legs ache, bones and muscle, tendons and sinew bending and twisting as though protesting his strange, human form. When he must lay in the cold salt water, floating in the gulf between his two worlds until the prickling of tears has gone away.

 

It is only sometimes.

 

* * *

 

Niall knows. Harry can see the knowledge in his eyes, the burn of something wary, something just short of unwelcoming. But worse, Harry can see Niall’s agitation touching Liam, taking away from the careful peace they have built up around each other.

So Harry drags Liam to dance, anything to push the burgeoning worry Harry can see in his eyes. 

The songs of Liam’s world carry a rhythm so different from that of the ocean, and yet so similar. Even if his feet can’t find the perfect beat, the music still fills him with a wild joy, all the more so as he can see it reflected in Liam’s eyes, which follow his every movement. Yet even through the haze of happy exhaustion, thedistant ache of tired feet, Harry can feel the weight of Niall’s eyes, following him as he spins Liam around and around.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t hurt him.” Niall says, his voice carrying even through the steady din of the pub. Harry stands by the door, waiting for Liam to gather their coats. He knew Niall had been waiting to speak with him.

“Why would I?” Harry asks.

“You might not mean to,” Niall says, taking a step closer, his hand hovering as if to touch Harry’s shoulder but not quite daring. “But the ocean is a powerful thing.” Niall’s face is open and wide; it is not meant to be lined with such worries.

“I love him.” Harry says, brow creasing in confusion when the weight does not lift away from Niall’s face. For it is enough for Harry, to love and be loved. He loves Liam with a certainty that will someday fill the spot in his heart that once held the ocean. He loves Liam in the absence of the sea’s songs, a silence now filled with conversation and tunes from Liam’s childhood. He loves Liam even when his feet ache and his legs are shot with spikes of hot pain, when he longs for the cool ease of the tides.

 

As Liam comes up behind him, steps close of Harry’s side and slips his sweat slicked hand around Harry’s own, Harry knows he has found his peace even if Niall cannot understand. And Harry banishes the cold unease sparked by the weight of Niall’s words and the world-weary knowledge of his gaze. 

 

Harry loves Liam more than he ever loved the sea, for the sea never loved him back.

 

It is enough.

 

* * *

  

But Harry thought it would be easier.

 

* * *

 

He wiggles his toes in the sand, still warmed by the lingering touch of the sun. He closes his eyes and pretends he can feel each grain, each fragment of shell.

He walks forward slowly until he stands with his feet in the water, throwing his arms to his sides. He closes his eyes and lets the wind swirl around him in a cloud of water and sand. He can almost pretend he is caught in tumultuous pull of the ocean, can almost feel the sway of the waves. There is a bewildering ache in his bones, a longing for the unrestrained freedom of diving in the depths of the ocean, of spinning weightless in the water.

But worst of all is the silence. There is the roar of the sea, the rasp of the gulls and thrum of life but they beat in a painful cacophony.

Harry clenches his jaw and steps further into the ocean, but he can’t hear the song.

He can feel an echo, a distant reverberation deep in his chest but there is no harmony or melody to calm his soul. It aches. 

He doesn’t hear Liam’s approach, for once oblivious to his presence. He doesn’t know Liam is there until Liam’s arms are wrapped tight around his waist, pushing the air from his lungs and anchoring him to the land. Harry bites back a whimper, though he does not know if it is of relief or longing. He leans heavily into Liam’s arms, curling tight into himself as though he can push the yearning away.

“Liam?” Harry asks, wincing at the roughness of his own voice.  

“You were gone.” Liam whispers; Harry can feel the roughness of Liam’s lips against his neck. Liam’s arms, his lips, his voice... Harry feels himself settle, bit by bit, surrounded as he is by the reason he has chosen the land.

“I am here.” Harry says to Liam, but his words are snatched away on the sea breeze, “I was just listening for the song.” He chose Liam, he chose the land, and he is happy. But the space in his heart that once held the song of the ocean is empty, a pulsing ache he will learn to ignore.

 

* * *

 

Harry doesn’t know why Liam is leading him out onto the beach. He doesn’t question; he can feel the lines of tension running through Liam’s hand, held gentle in his own. He can see Liam’s back shaking as though he will break and fly away into a hundred pieces. He runs his fingers across Liam’s arm, trying to draw some of the strain away; he frowns when his touch seems only to coil Liam even tighter.

They stop in the middle of the lonely beach, alone but for the crash of the waves. Liam says nothing, but his lips are trembling and that’s enough.

Harry lifts his hands, placing them gently on Liam’s beloved, gnarled face. He strokes his thumb under the soft skin beneath Liam’s eyes, smiling gently when Liam leans almost helplessly into his touch. Liam moves swiftly, ducking out of Harry’s grip and instead wrapping his arms tight around Harry’s waist, pulling him in close.

“I love you.” Liam whispers into Harry’s neck and Harry smiles because he does. But Harry has no time to answer, instead feels the push of something being shoved against his chest.

His fingers close around the soft cloth and the world stops.

He does not need eyes to see, he knows what Liam has handed to him. And suddenly, the ever-present longing simmering in the back of his mind becomes a physical thing, a sharp pulling just beneath his breastbone. The wind is swirling and rising around him, harmonizing with the waves and the gulls. After months and months of silence, the song is so loud Harry’s mind echoes with it, all other thoughts pushed aside.

He tries to clutch at Liam’s shirt, desperately seeking an anchor against the wrenching pull of the water. But his fingers are no longer his own to command; they belong to the sea again, and refuse to release their grip on his pelt. And Liam’s own grip on his shoulders is ephemeral, so light Harry can barely feel it over the roar of his blood. It isn’t enough to make him stay.

“What are you doing?” Harry forces out through uncooperative lips. He thought… he thought they were happy. Nothing makes sense; what had he done wrong that Liam is throwing him away? He feels the press of Liam’s lips on his forehead, fever hot against his chilled skin but distant in a away Liam’s touch has never been. His feet stutter in the sand, begging to jump into the sea but Harry doesn’t want to go. 

_Please, please, please,_ He wants to say, _Don’t make me go_. But all he can force from his throat is a quiet whimper; he doesn’t have time to speak before the sea summons him home.

 His legs are moving, pulling him further and further away from Liam. He can’t force his muscles to obey, can’t even look back as the water breaks around him.

 His skin feel scrapped and raw, burns as though touched by fire instead of water. His pelt is closing around him, the surrounds him and the song is everywhere.

Harry closes his eyes and loses himself in the spray.

 

* * *

 

 

The rush of the ocean is dizzying and Harry feels drunk with it. His sense pulse and expand until he can see through the murk of the ocean, can hear each crest of the waves. It fills him until there is no room for thoughts of Liam and of the shore. Harry is pulled into the tides, and loses himself to the instincts he was born with; to feed, to swim, to be. And times passes.

 

* * *

 

Slowly, moment by moment, Harry comes back to himself. He is floating through the waves, the almost forgotten feeling of weightless cradling his bones. He stretches his neck and feels the ache of the land slip away. 

He swims. He thinks. He spins round and round until he can blame the dizziness in his head on the motion instead of loss.

 

He keeps his eyes to the water, trying not to look to the shore and all the memories it holds. His anger is quiet, a slow burn even in the cold of the water. He thought Liam’s home was his. He was wrong.

 

He keeps to himself, even as his brothers and sisters follow behind, crowding him in a way he had once longed so desperately for. But they gather, not for him, but to satisfy the insatiable curiosity of their nature, to know where he had gone and why he is back. And Harry can’t bear to be asked questions when he doesn’t know the answer. Doesn’t want to give voice to the churning sensation of being thrown back to the waves.

 

He can feel the song of his people, hear the call of the ocean but for the first time, it is empty.

 

Harry tries to swim away, tries to banish from his mind all thoughts of the little driftwood cottage and the man he foolishly thought would keep him.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry has never been good at letting go.

 

* * *

 

 

He finds himself watching Liam from a distance, searching for answers in Liam’s face. But the Liam perched in his small boat is not his Liam, with the crinkled-eyed smile and the arms that held Harry close and made him feel safe. This Liam seems small, his shoulders curled and his eyes shuttered. He fishes from dawn till dusk with a manic energy untouched by satisfaction.

 

Harry’s anger simmers into hurt and confusion. He doesn’t understand. Again, they are both alone. Liam broke them and he doesn’t seem happier for it.

 

* * *

 

Harry feels the ocean begin to roll and seize, knows the storm is coming before the sky turns dark. His kin swim for the coves, for the sea in its fury it isn’t safe even for those who call the water their home. They hide because they have no concern outside their comfortable waters.

 

Even as the water begins to churn around him, Harry turns away from the safety of the cove. Though through the darkening sky, he can’t see his destination but he thinks of the small driftwood cottage, cold and dark with no fire to welcome its master home. He thinks of a lonely man sitting in his skiff, tossing on the stormy seas with no one to miss him should he not come home.

 

Harry swims.

 

The water is rough, frothed by the raging winds. Harry fights the waves even as his body is tossed side to side by the furious sprays, the strength of the water more than he power of his flippers.

He can see through the violent water the hull of Liam’s boat, dashing back and forth and dipping deeper into the water with each moment.

Harry is almost to the boat when a great crashing wave sends him reeling. He rights himself, turning around to seek out Liam’s boat once more.

He finds it. But not like it was.

He sees the boat, the gentle curve of its bow, the hard wooden seats, the strong oars sinking slowly into the water. The boat floats upside down, masterless. Harry can feel his pulse, thudding a panicked beat behind his eyes; He can’t see Liam.

 

The ocean is a wild thing, bubbling and churning around him and Harry can’t see beyond his own nose.

The ocean cradled him through his youth, was his first love, fed and protected him. He has lived with the pull of the tide in his blood for all his years. It is his home, but in a moment had become the enemy, something to fight against. No matter why Liam returned him to the sea, Harry will fight for Liam.

 

And through the water, Harry sees Liam appear: a small, motionless figure slipping deeper into the black depths of the ocean.

 

Harry dives beneath Liam, pushed his nose into Liam’s chest and swims. He pushes them both up towards the faint promise of the surface. Harry’s lungs burn, his flippers ache but he pushes forward, Liam’s slack face forcing fire into his muscles.

This is something he cannot fail at.

 

In this form, Harry is small and his smooth, lean muscles strain under the weight of Liam’s bulk, the burden pushing Harry down into the water. But Harry fights back. Harry doesn’t understand much consequence but he understands this; Liam needs him.

 

* * *

 

The storm breaks as Harry heaves Liam onto the rocky beach. The sun is just passed its zenith, and it warms on Harry’s back as it breaks through the lightening clouds.

Harry lies on the beach, pressed close to Liam’s side. Liam doesn’t move, but Harry can feel the slight push-press of Liam’s chest as he breathes.

He did not know why Liam had thrown him back to the ocean, but it didn’t matter. Harry loves Liam with a depth unswayed by his changing form, untouched by the cold call of the water.

Even if Liam does not want him, he will stay by his side until he wakes.

 

* * *

 

Liam’s eyes flutter open and when he sees Harry, there is no confusion, no moment of disorientation. Liam sees Harry in his seal form, but he still sees Harry. He does not shy away as Harry half expected him to, he does not turn his head. Instead he looks at Harry with a pained reverence, as though Harry is something he never deserved.

“I just wanted to love you.” Liam’s voice hurts, for it comes laden with the memory of evenings curled by the fireplace, of nights twined together in a too small bed. Harry feels a reluctant flush of happiness and fights the urge to move closer, to wallow in the warmth of Liam’s presence. Liam raises his hand slowly. It is shaking, and Harry fights back the hot rush of concern, forces himself not to bury his face in Liam’s hands.

“I couldn’t keep you from the sea.” Liam whispers, his voice a grating and jagged thing. It holds a broken longing Harry recognizes, has felt in his own bones. Harry wonders if Liam was trying to save him, just as he longed to save Liam. He thought Liam had understood, that nothing could touch the place Liam had in Harry’s heart. But maybe something had been lost. Something that could be fixed.

He gives in, rests his head against Liam’s hand and closes his eyes against the painful gratefulness in Liam’s face.

 

Maybe, Harry thinks, maybe.

 

* * *

 

Day by day, Liam waits for him in the water, his face breaking into soft smiles when Harry surfaces. He flops onto Liam’s boat, and Liam’s helpless laughter settles something deep in his chest.

 

He stays close to Liam, becomes a constant shadow to his small skiff. He tells himself it’s to protect Liam from the capricious sea. But as he dances in the waves next to Liam and feels Liam’s warm gaze on him, he finds himself thinks of Midsummer, and of the driftwood cottage.

 

Wait for me. He thinks. Please, don’t forget me.

 

* * *

 

The day before midsummer breaks warm and fast. Liam’s nets fill quickly with fish, his boat riding low in the water under the weight of his catch. Yet, he lingers in the sea, his fingers resting lightly in the water as Harry swims in lazy circles around the boat, nosing at Liam’s hand with each pass. The painful anticipation for the coming moon keeps Harry in motion, even as it seems to hold Liam inert.

“I love you.” Liam says to the sky, face twisted in frustration as though fighting to put words to a thing he can’t voice. “Whatever happens, I love you.” And Harry wonders if Liam is giving him permission to not return, to stay in the comfortable familiarity of the sea. Sometimes, Harry wonders if Liam could ever understand that Harry loves him back.

Harry butts his head against the firm hull of the boat. The night will come soon enough.

 

* * *

 

The change is easier this time. His mind remembers being human even if his muscles have forgotten. His brothers and sisters eye him warily as he breaks from the sea, running, uncaring of his nakedness.

He is going home.

 

* * *

 

He can see Liam through the window. The night is half over by the time he finds the cottage, the moon high in the sky but Liam is awake, pacing back and forth in front on the fire. Harry rests his hand gently on the glass, feeling the lines and divots of time, just one pane separating him from his love. But they will have time.

Harry places his pelt gently in front of the door, the very stoop he had first stood on only one year ago. He tucks a note carefully within its folds; _Hide me better this time, you idiot._

 

And he leaves, forcing his feet to carry him back to the water and to leave his heart behind, if only for a few hours more. Harry stands on the rocks and sings to the ocean around him, sings the songs of the ocean, sings the songs Liam taught him. He twists them gently into something new and beautiful.

 

Soon, soon, morning will come and he will be home.

 

* * *

 

And this is how Liam finds him, before even the barest light of morning has dared chase the night away. He runs to Harry, only to stop just out of arms reach, eyes wide and bloodshot. His lips tremble and his hand is frozen in mid air, as though he longs to reach for Harry but dares not. Dares not test a mirage for the bitter fear of loss. This, Harry understands.

And he leaps, trusting Liam to catch him as he always has. He burrows into the warmth of Liam’s chest, and can’t tell if he is shaking, or it Liam is.

He kisses Liam’s cheeks, his nose, his lips again and again. He tastes away each tear, and it tastes like the brine of the ocean.

It tastes like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I apologize for the gaping plot holes. If its totally incomprehensible, or if you have any questions, let me know! Again, grammar is not my strong point so if you notice any mistakes please let me know and I will try to fix them.
> 
> Comments and kudos make my heart happy!
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> Jules

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS: There is one moment at the end when Liam makes somes bad choices, and almost commits what could be passive suicide. Harry intervenes.  
> END SPOILERS
> 
> http://onedirection-slo.tumblr.com/post/82672086395  
> This is my Liam; scraggy, weather beaten and sad. 
> 
> http://31.media.tumblr.com/b444cb5f015cfd42cbf78d778df1a736/tumblr_natpbzJozw1tc258so1_r2_1280.png  
> https://500px.com/photo/84002477/profile-of-a-harbour-seal-by-kenny-barker  
> Harry was inspired by these adorable idiots. Except, you know, with biologically impossible green eyes. Because, selkies. 
> 
> I have half a tiny coda planned out in my mind, from Harry’s point of view. It would be mainly set at the end, and consist of Harry-the-seal being very angry at Liam, and stalking him anyway because he loves the idiotic human. I don’t know. 
> 
> Anyway, hope it was kind of enjoyable! Let me know if it was too incomprehensible, I can attempt to clarify!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Comments and kudos are cuddled and adored more than you shall ever know!
> 
> Cheers!


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